


The Phage

by PermianExtinction



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Humor, Introspective and Analytical Mitaka, M/M, Mostly Heterosexual Mitaka having Very Gay Feelings about Hux, POV First Person, Prompt Fill, Suspense, Undressing, mentions of Force Choking, non-sexual nudity, scary made up space diseases, the barest smidge of a Jealous Kylo Ren
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 13:31:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7575826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PermianExtinction/pseuds/PermianExtinction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yellow Blood Phage kills fast and spreads faster, and there's one certain sign that someone is infected - yellow bruising on the skin. When the virus gets loose on the Finalizer, General Hux decides to quarantine a large block of the ship and have everyone strip down and check each other for signs of the disease. Lieutenant Mitaka ends up paired with the general himself for inspection. </p><p>Written in first person, from Mitaka's point of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Phage

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on tumblr, which was "Hitaka + undress". Hang out with me on tumblr at permian-tropos.

After deliberation, General Hux spins on his heel and levels a piercing stare at me. The dagger of command. Something about it is quite impossible to acclimate to, even if my rank on his ship puts me on the receiving end of his orders all the time.

“Lieutenant Mitaka. Lock down every deck between here and cargo bay twelve. Seal all sections off from one another. Including air circulation systems.”

His words confirm what we all feared; that the current of the ventilation systems connects the cargo bay to the command bridge. That all of us up here could be… 

“Yes, sir,” I hear myself saying. My hands are already darting to the console. I might consider it a talent that my body always snaps to attention and carries out orders even when I am, as a fellow of mine would rather crudely say when we were both ensigns, “pissing scared”.

Behind me, the broad doors slam shut and hiss like enraged vipers as they seal.

The moment of eye contact breaks as Hux marches past, rounding the circuit of the bridge, assessing each officer’s psychological status. The majority of us are nervous, clinging to protocol the way a refugee child clings to a doll: a comfort both utterly useless and absolutely necessary.

After all, there would be little any of us could do if the mindless, silent, invisible killer that was loosed on the _Finalizer_ had already chosen one of us as its victim.

“Quarantine, sir?” the Chief Science Officer says. It’s a rhetorical question that I doubt he needs to ask, except to soothe his jangling nerves by categorizing the situation.

Hux stiffly nods. There’s no way he isn’t as rattled as the rest of us, but he isn’t snapping at anyone. He knows that if he takes his anxiety out in anger, everyone else will follow suit. “Was it accurate, that those infected with the Yellow Blood Phage quickly develop sallow bruises on their skin?”

“That is correct, sir,” responds the Science Officer. He keeps talking, his eyes slightly glazed. “Branching, net-like bruises highlighting one’s circulatory system appear within a few minutes of the virus entering the body. Within ten minutes, dizziness sets in and sharp pains erupt throughout the limbs as air bubbles form in blood vessels. Within fifteen minutes the virus makes its way to the excretory system and emerges from sweat glands as the skin cracks and dries. Within twenty minutes…”

“Yes,” Hux curtly interrupts, “I’m well aware of what happens then.”

He addresses the Chief Communications Officer next, down in one of the console pits. “Open a channel to all quarantined sectors,” he orders.

A series of high-pitched beeps and tones. “Channel open, sir.”

The general faces away from me, but when it comes to Hux, that view is often the one that tells the most about his state of mind. His hands are clasped behind his back, fingers digging into his palms. Sometimes they are restless, clenching and relaxing as if he’s working a ball of dough. But right now he holds them so tightly they shake a tad. No movement to them, except for that.

“Attention personnel,” he declares, his chin up and his gaze fixed at a point out beyond the darkened viewports, perhaps some pale guiding star glittering in the black. “This is General Hux. Stop what you are doing. We are in a state of emergency.” He breathes in, breathes out. “One of the crates of contraband in cargo bay twelve was discovered to contain creatures which were carriers of the highly contagious and deadly Yellow Blood Phage.” His articulation speeds up slightly as he speaks, which he seems to be aware of, because the next sentence comes out deliberately even. “Yellow Blood is an airborne pathogen. All decks which the virus could have been carried to by the airflow systems have been completely sealed.”

The crewmembers in cargo bay twelve who made the discovery… No good thinking about them. They performed their duties.

“Remain calm. Panic will only waste oxygen. By now, anyone who has been infected with the virus will have begun to exhibit its first symptom: patches of yellowish discoloration on the skin. They will be elongated, tracing over subcutaneous blood vessels, and will show up on any shade of skin. All crewmembers must pair up, strip down, and inspect one another for these symptoms.”

Hux is beginning to fidget now, which means the source of his anxiety has shifted. It’s slight, but even an ice sculpture like Hux melts a bit under pressure, if you can recognize his tells. I’m aware that I’m reputed to have a nervous disposition, but that might be because I’m very good at picking up on, and then reflecting back, the uneasiness of others. Most of the time, people are lot more uneasy than they care to let on.

“Report any signs of infection _immediately_ ,” he says. “Medtechs will be dispatched to affected sectors, but to resume ship functions, the airflow systems must first be properly rerouted. Time is of the essence.” Hux remains straight-backed; he turns towards the Communications Officer and lowers only his gaze. “Close the channel.”

I understand why he was briefly uneasy. The mention of medtechs was blatantly deceit. There’s no possibility of him risking the rest of the ship by letting the virus fester. But he can’t tell the crew that if even a single person in their sector is infected, they’ll all be left to suffocate, otherwise there would be a chance someone might hide their symptoms. So he lies. And the safety of the rest of us depends on it being credible. 

The orders apply here too. I wonder briefly if there will be confusion, as the crew tries to determine who will partner with whom for the inspections. But what I see from the way the bridge crew sorts itself into twos with an almost chemical regularity is that no one wants to expend precious time and air on indecision or modesty. I admire it greatly; a crowd of civilians might fall into chaos, but everyone here is a trained officer in the First Order. Mob mentality has been excised from us, and replaced with firm discipline.

I regret to say that while thinking in these abstractions, I momentarily forget that I, too, need to pair up with one of my fellow officers. But my station on the bridge does not put me directly next to anyone, so those closest to me have already grouped up with another. Ears assaulted by the rattling of belts, the shuffling of fabric, and the faint, shrill scraping of zippers, my gaze combs through the room once again, this time seeking anyone standing alone and searching about as I am.

It’s almost comical how, despite his standing directly in my line of sight on the walkway bisecting the console pits, my focus skates over General Hux until he pivots on his heel and looks directly at me.

What had I just been thinking about professionalism and discipline countermanding any emotional reaction to the situation? Feel free to chalk that up as utter bollocks. My pulse stutters like a cadet tripping up in their oversized boots.

But once again, the part of me that falters isn’t the part that controls my body. I feel the mental fuse that’s been overloaded popping and sparking, but it’s been designated as nonessential. Most of my emotions have been designated as nonessential. Perhaps they show on my face, but the rest of my muscles move like droidwork. I step back from my console, standing at perfect attention as Hux strides over, glancing briefly from side to side as he confirms that everyone else has assigned themselves a partner and has begun to undress.

I don’t wait for an order to begin unbuttoning my jacket – Hux has already given the command, and besides, I’m not so distracted that the urgency of the circumstances escapes me. Pretty soon, the air will begin to taste stale.

Based on the microcosm of the bridge crew, I can assume that the pattern of pairings throughout the ship, if a choice was available, is between like-bodied individuals. Tall with tall, short with short. Dark with dark, pale with pale. Skinny with skinny, fat with fat. More comfortable, and thus more expedient, to inspect a body that resembles your own.

And then the obvious: male with male, female with female. This isn’t to say that same-sex attraction is a rarity, or that prudishness is particularly rampant in the ranks of the First Order. At the moment, the thoughts weighing heavily on most people’s minds aren’t going to be of a lascivious nature. The finger of death is spinning round and round and it could stop anywhere. If anyone within a particular sector is found to be infected…

So why is it that I flush as Hux approaches? Simple explanation: I’m physically attracted to him. Except I know myself, I know my preferences. I don’t think much about men. And I most definitely am aware of how dire things are.

Better explanation: It’s General Hux. The man is the face of the First Order. An icon. Even someone like me, who works directly with him, knows him best from the news holos, the morale speeches, the public service announcements. The passion we feel for our work, for our cause – all of it is entwined with him, his presence. Before he’s a man, he’s a feeling in your chest, a burning drive; confidence, security, unity.

But then, right now, he is all that _and_ a man. And ‘preferences’ just forget they ever had a say in the matter.

I’ve already shed my boots and my jacket – and to my credit there was no fumbling, nothing shy about it. Orders are orders.

The first thing he says to me is, “You’ll need to help me with these,” and indicates his boots. “Mine don’t unzip.”

That does give me trouble briefly because it’s not phrased like an order. I can see the lines of tension in his features. His lips are relaxed, not thinned or pursing; a more obvious sign of anxiety hidden, but the stress finds its outlet somewhere else. I find the outlet: a tightness in his jaw. His brows remain unknitted, but his eyes are slightly wider than usual. He knows he could die here. I know that too. His rank won’t spare him – no virus counts the stripes on your sleeve – and so, for the moment, he addresses me as an equal because, for the moment, I am one.

The moment passes; I say, “Yes, sir,” and drop to one knee, reaching around for the heel of his left boot. I keep my eyes on it – don’t look up, and for stars’ sake don’t look straight ahead. It takes a few firm tugs to loosen up; I hear Hux unbuckling his belt, and then it drops beside him with a clatter. Because I’m tense, it startles me, and I suspect that the sound will haunt me as it replays in my head for many sleep shifts to come.  _If_ I live to see another cycle at all.

The boot comes off. I set it aside and reach for the other. Again I can assure you that I act swiftly, without lingering. This one sticks more firmly; Hux silently allows his foot to be manhandled. Then I stand up, turning my attention back to undressing myself. I peel my gloves off a bit roughly, gripping them from the wrist, and let them fall underfoot. My shirt comes off with a bit more precision. It’s fastened down the front, not with buttons, but with tiny metal hooks.

I do not hesitate – I have mentioned this enough for it to be tedious, I am sure. So it surprises me when I realize that Hux has halted, his eyes narrowing and fixing on my collarbone.

The sharp bolt of horror pierces through me. I must have gone absolutely ashen with dread. Everything is stark and cold and brittle. Does he see—?

“A near miss,” Hux mutters.

I’m still not breathing.

He extends a hand and hovers his palm in front of my Adam’s apple. Then, slowly, he closes the gap. His fingers gently hold my throat.

The memory rushes back to me of futilely struggling in midair against an unseen power that grips my windpipe shut. Three, maybe four cycles ago? Funny, I think. I hadn’t been as terrified then as I was just now. I let out a stuttering exhalation.

Hux withdraws. “The hue is more green than yellow,” he informs me. “And it isn’t the right shape. But given just a few more days…”

Neither of us can afford to be properly relieved yet, but understanding passes between us. Hux was as spooked as I was, I can tell. One can hardly blame him, although it’s likely that inspection pairs throughout the ship are experiencing the same momentary fright. Stormtroopers pick up plenty of bruises, and so do some technicians. I should have remembered the incident, mentioned it.

Hux is pulling off his own shirt now, and I blink. It’s not even in question: his outfit pads his shoulders and fills out his chest. He’s thin, thinner than me. I watch that skinny chest rise and fall. He’s definitely recovering from a shock.

“That son of a _bitch_ ,” he eventually sneers. He means Kylo Ren, of course. His distaste for the Knight is well-known; he doesn’t usually express it so vehemently, but even if Lord Ren has nothing to do with the danger we’re in, it’s fair for Hux to be directing fury at him.

Then Hux adds, “He’s always going after you. It’s childish. Reprehensible.”

I’m confused, having never considered being a unique target of Kylo Ren’s ire, but also distracted by the notion that Hux has an opinion about my wellbeing. The thought is like a shot of alcohol, and it brings a similar buzz. “Merely an occupational hazard,” I say, amazed by how nonchalant it seems to come out.

Hard to tell if he’s impressed. Maybe on the inside. But it’s not prodigious of me to be accepting threat to my person with dignity. It’s the obligation of any officer.

There isn’t anything left to remove on my upper half. I have no choice but to start baring the rest. So I do, shedding my trousers and underpants. I can’t help but shiver faintly, but it’s mostly from the chilly air on the bridge. Air that might be harboring a painful, grotesque demise. To be brutally honest, that one thought is what keeps my dick pointing right where it’s supposed to – at the floor – as Hux’s pale eyes flick over the rest of me. But on reflection, given the choice between popping a stiffie in front of my commanding officer and risking a brush with the Yellow Blood Phage, I’d choose the former.

I can’t help but notice that the air is beginning to feel thinner. The depleting oxygen is becoming noticeable. I wonder how much more time we have.

“Turn around,” Hux then says, and I obey, clasping my hands together in front of my groin. Then I feel a touch under my arms and I raise them, letting him inspect my sides and armpits. Seconds pass, and I think Hux is crouching, checking my calves and thighs. Then I hear the rustling of his own trousers dropping to the floor. “You’re clear,” he tells me.

Even if I’m clear, someone else might not be. _He_ might not be – in fact he’s _most likely_ not to be, considering he arrived on the bridge from a lower section immediately after the disease was discovered. Perhaps that’s why he almost seems more on edge than me. I can’t tell if it’s that thought that keeps my head clear, or the fact that it’s not Hux’s maleness that really is the issue for me.

But I face him once again and glance over his legs and pelvic area, stooping just a bit. He has the expected penis, and a small trail of pubic hair that’s just the same reddish gold color as the hair on his head. That too, could have been expected.

What he doesn’t have is any yellow bruises. I don’t tell him to turn; instead, I circle around him to look over his back from shoulders to hips, and then bend down as he did to check his legs. No trace of yellow there either, though I see the palest, faintest hints of pink lines criss-crossing over his skin. The marks must be quite old, and I recognize them immediately as the remnants of corporal punishment, the sort they dole out to misbehaving cadets at the Academy. I’d felt the sting of an ion lash a few times when I was little – everyone was beaten at least once, if nothing else to make things fair – but it never was enough to leave a permanent mark. Either they’d been harsher when Hux was young, or they’d been specifically harsher with _him_.

But he’s clear. I inform him. “You’re clear, sir.”

“Very good, Lieutenant,” he says, though it’s the sort of “very good” that just means “I acknowledge it”. “Pick up your uniform and await orders at your console.”

His expression, when he turns back around, has become the stiff, stony countenance of a commanding officer. Everyone else has been relatively quiet this whole time, only murmuring a few indistinct words every now and again. I gather up my clothes in a soft bundle, holding them at my hip, and step up to my station, hardly daring to hope. I remain upright, though I feel short of breath.

“If you have found anything resembling the yellow bruises of the virus,” Hux barks, his voice suddenly carrying throughout the bridge, “make your report.”

No one moves. No one speaks up. A gaggle of about a dozen naked men and women standing mutely in their fleshy pink or brown glory. The bridge crew of the flagship of the First Order’s fleet, all naked as the day they were born. The navigations officers have set aside their bulky black helmets – at first, I don’t even recognize them, since I doubt I’ve seen their faces before now. If things hadn’t been so tense, it would be like a bizarre dream.

Hux is trusting us. He’s trusting everyone in the quarantined zone of the ship to be honest.

It’s becoming very apparent that there’s little oxygen left. There’s a slight burning in my chest. I notice some of the paler officers are losing color in their cheeks.

“I’m receiving word from the other sectors,” says the Communications Officer, who is seated back at her console. “There’s no sign of any infected crewmembers anywhere but cargo bay twelve. It seems the virus’s spread was halted there.”

But was it? But was anyone lying, hiding their symptoms? Was anyone left out?

“Get dressed,” Hux orders abruptly. And then he addresses me, without turning. “Lieutenant Mitaka, reroute the air circulation systems to bypass cargo bay twelve. Unseal all other sectors.”

And I do just that, my fingers gratefully typing out the commands, and the thick doors behind me hiss and part. Seconds later I feel a fresh air in my lungs, and I breathe deeply, knees going a bit weak as I pull my uniform back on piece by piece. Everyone is dressing themselves once again, including Hux, with the swiftness we all have been trained for. I see a few officers leaning on each other, or bracing themselves against the wall, allowing themselves a brief respite as the realizations washes over us all that we might just have survived this.

General Hux offers no criticisms for this lapse in professionalism, but he stands at parade rest, surveying the scene with rigid detachment, setting a different example that, one after another, the officers copy.

And I sorely wish I could do the same, but I’m dealing with a very personal and involuntary lapse in professionalism. Thankfully it’s hidden behind my console, but somehow, the arousal I’d been suppressing for the past few minutes decides to, a bit literally, rear its head. As if the idle thought I’d had about preferring a stiffie to the risk of the Phage was a contract I sealed.

It’s absurd. I endured Hux’s eyes questing over my naked body without a twitch, but then… what? Was it the relief, that none of us would be dying today? A boner for life. A boner of jubilation. I am appalled and amazed.

I cannot say for sure if Hux ever noticed it, but in an hour and a half, when the shift change comes around, I feel a hand on my shoulder and hear the general’s voice murmuring, “Commendable effort, Lieutenant,” before pushing me towards the exit.

So there is a _possibility_.

 


End file.
